


Waiting

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: The prophecy said once and future, emphasis on the and future. It’s the part Merlin clings too as he waits and waits through decades, the centuries, for Arthur to rise again. There are a few times he’s sure it’s going to happen, there are many when he wishes it had. But still he waits refusing to leave his master’s side.





	Waiting

The year was 872, and Merlin was stood at the lake edge.

He usually only made this journey twice a year. To mark his coronation and his death. 

He hadn’t expected to be waiting here so soon, though he supposed that over two hundredyears wouldn’t be considered ‘soon’ by anybody except him. But the Vikings were invading and this time something was different. They’d taken a larger portion of Albion than ever before. Sweeping across the country as Arthur’s people fled before them, until now, all that remained was the kingdom they called Wessex.

It had once been called Camelot.

And perhaps it would be again.

After all, it was only fitting.

The kingdom had, for the last thirty years, been led by Aethelred and he had always managed to keep the Vikings at bay. At least up until they had launched a surprise attack on the southern coast when, with the main army tied up fighting on the northern border, Aethelred himself had ridden out to face them. Only to be killed for his trouble.

His son, Alfred, was poised to take the throne but he was young, untested and what Albion needed now, above all, was a strong king. A noble king. A warrior king.

It needed Arthur.

_Surely,_ it needed Arthur.

He’d always known he could never leave his friend. Arthur would have wanted him to return to Camelot, to help Gwen, to guide his kingdom, but he’d never been able to bring himself to do it. His task, his destiny, had always been and would always be to guard Arthur.

In the wake of Arthur’s death, he’d clung to one singular part of the prophecy.  _The once and future king,_ they called him.Once and  _future._ He’d found such comfort in the idea that Arthur would one day rise again. That all the years of guiding him, protecting him, had not been wasted on that all-too-brief time when he had been king.

But that would only be true if he lived to see it.

Long ago, he’d left Arthur, only long enough to seek out the masters of the old religion. In secret hidden places across the land, he’d learned all he could from them. Then he had dedicated his time to the study of magic, to penetrating the very depths of his art, his powers.

It had taken him only six years to learn the secrets of immortality, though, in truth, he’d been surprised at the power he now wielded. What the crystal cave had given him was only augmented by his study until finally,  _finally,_ he understood why the druid prophecy had always claimed him as the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth. 

He could even control the aging process.

For the most part it suited him to stay young. The bumbling servant disguise he’d worn in Camelot easily became the bumbling farmer and asides from seeking the odd bit of herbal knowledge or medical help, people left him alone for the most part.

That’s how he could be here, now, camped out at the lake’s edge in a tent made of cloth and sticks. Waiting.

It would be soon.

It  _had_  to be soon.

*

The year was 1349, and Merlin was stood at the lake edge.

This time he was sure he was right.

Last time Aethelred’s son Alfred had risen up to become ‘Alfred the Great’. He’d driven back the Vikings, and Merlin had realised Albion hadn’t needed Arthur that time. Then, as Alfred had become Edward, Edward had become Aethelstan down through the centuries until Aethelred the Unready had become Sweyn he realised that there would always be Kings and Kingdoms and with them wars and unrest. Wars and unrest always followed by peace and prosperity in a cycle that didn’t need Arthur to help it turn.

So, when William the Conqueror had stormed up from Normandy, he hadn’t batted an eyelid. Hadn’t gone down to the lake, except for the twice a year he always did. He’d simply waited as the rebellions and unrest that had followed William’s conquest were predictably followed by peace. For the most part he’d remained undisturbed.

Except for that ludicrous tax debacle. 

These days, it suited him to stay in his prime. He supposed he looked around thirty to the average man. Being young had its advantages in keeping him hidden, but people tended not to heed your words or advice when you appeared young. It was hard to help when no-one listened. In any case, there was no need to hide now. People had long since stopped believing in real magic. These days, it was all superstition, omens and curses. Nothing like the real thing.

He’d found he missed the world, he’d missed people and so in recent years, he had allowed a small village to grow about the home he’d built. It couldn’t stay for too many years more or his agelessness would be noted, but for the past twenty years it had been nice to live amongst real people again. He’d been able to help them, guide them. He’d even found a beautiful young woman named Mary to love.

At least, until she’d died of the plague.

He wondered if Arthur had been able to meet her in the afterlife. If she could tell him what this terrible disease was doing to his kingdom. If she had, surely he would rise.

Because Arthur wasn’t needed to bring peace, or unite the land. Men were capable of doing that themselves. Arthur’s task was to bring  _hope_. He understood that now. 

And with thousands dying of plague every day, hope was needed now more than ever.

This time he was right

He was  _certain_  he was right.

*

The year was 1643, and Merlin was stood at the lake’s edge. 

So much had changed in the world. He tried not to think about it if he could avoid it. Arthur hadn’t been that fond of crossbows. He claimed that they required no skill, that it was hardly honourable to kill a man in such a way. 

He wondered what Arthur would make of guns.

These days, he walked the land as an old man. The man Morgana had feared as Emrys. It was mostly because he  _felt_ old. Tired.

He didn’t  _really_  believe that Arthur would rise this time. True, Albion (he had never been able to think of this land as England) was more divided than it had ever been with the population split between ‘Cavaliers’ and ‘Roundheads’, two ridiculous terms to denote two equally ridiculous styles of dress. But he had no doubt that in time the war would conclude, the winner would win and everything would return to normal.

As had happened so many times before.

But recently, he’d  _missed_ them. Not just Arthur, he always missed Arthur. He missed Camelot, Gaius, Gwen that wonderful but  _insufferable_  band of knights. He missed the  _wonder._ True, Uther and Arthur had sought to destroy magic, but the  _wonder_ had always been there. The whisper of the old religion, creatures like the Manticore, phoenixes,  _dragons..._

He’d lost count of the amount of times he’d almost called Kilgharrah, just to have someone to talk to. Someone who  _understood._ He always stopped himself, of course. Not just because of the consequences of a dragon appearing, but also because wasn’t sure he would come, wasn’t sure he even lived any more. Part of him couldn’t bear the idea of calling and having no answer.

Arthur wouldn’t rise to solve this crisis, but on this day nearly nine hundred years ago a young apprentice had called a young prince an ‘arrogant prat’, and now the old old  _old_ man missed those days more than anything.

‘Thank you’ had been his last words. And twice a year, for nearly nine hundred years, Merlin had thanked him in return.

This year, he wanted to say thank you an extra time.

And maybe, just  _maybe_ , he might be allowed to say it to his face.  

*

The year was 1940, and Merlin was stood at the lake edge.

The need had never been greater. If it were ever going to happen, surely,  _surely,_ it would happen now.

In the previous few centuries, he’d de-aged, been his younger self. But now he was an old man once more, not because he wished it, but because it was  _necessary._

He wore the loose-fitting one-size-doesn’t-fit-anyone uniform of the Home Guard, but he’d given the rifle to Private Pike. It wasn’t as if  _he_  needed a weapon himself.

_Evil_ had risen. Pure, unadulterated evil, sweeping across Europe and knocking at Albion’s door. Kept at bay only by a few brave pilots in their flying machines. He didn’t think that would be enough.

He had to admit though, that he had never been prouder of Arthur’s people. Contrary to what was happening in Germany, the people of Albion were united in a way that they had never been before. Going about their daily business with more cheer than the situation warranted. Strangers helping strangers, even at their own expense. Those in the country taking children out of the cities to protect them from the bombs.

And yes, that included himself.

(He’d soon found that children were remarkably docile if you could conjure fireworks inside their rooms, or sweets into their pockets.)

The people had  _spirit_ once more and surely,  _surely,_ whatever remained of the old world, the old religion, it wouldn’t let Hitler’s evil infect this Albion.  _Arthur_  wouldn’t letit, if he had any say in the matter, which Merlin doubted.  

It would be any day now, any day.

He was sure enough that, for the first time since 872, he’d chosen to camp beside the lake. This tent was very different from the last one. It had plastic ropes tied to pegs specifically  _designed_ for the purpose and it was actually  _dry._ He’d bought a little paraffin stove too, a curious looking thing, and found that it was far better than an open fire for cooking. He enjoyed imagining Arthur’s reaction to the luxury.

Arthur would rise soon. He was sure and he couldn’t help but be almost deliriously happy about that. It took every instinct in him not to make himself young again, but it was hard when he felt more buoyant than he had in centuries.

Any day now

It would be  _any_  day now.

*

The year was 2250, and Merlin was stood at the lake’s edge.

Everything had gone wrong in the last century. Mankind across the globe were more divided than they had ever been. Bigotry, hatred and anger had all risen sharply. War had become a staple of everyone’s lives. Unlike the conflicts of past centuries, there were no cycles, this had lasted  _decades._

After so many years of progressive thinking, inclusion, unity, the sharp change had felt wrong. So very,  _very,_ wrong. He was barely able to sleep because it had felt so wrong. This wasn’t just unease, it was deeper than that. Instincts he’d long thought dead resurfaced. His dreams plagued him with flashes of the future.

Eventually he’d done something he hadn’t done in over a thousand years, he’d left Arthur. Left Albion.

But now he returned. It should have been an epic journey, should have taken days, weeks. Instead, he had hopped on the hover-train and been in Camelot within the hour.

His feet had known their home, even if everything else had changed. He’d found the entrance to the crystal cave with only a little difficulty. Though, he supposed if he hadn’t known  _exactly_  where to make the crater then he’d have never found it. Nevertheless, inside the cave, the truth had been revealed to him.

Morgana.

Somehow she had survived the wound from Excalibur. He wasn’t sure how. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know how because if she had survived,  _could_ he have saved Arthur?

He supposed it didn’t matter now.

She had taken her time about it, let herself recover and spent many years studying. For decades, it seemed she had been blackening the hearts of men and he, so secure in his lonely dwelling so separated from the world, he had  _missed it_.

It  _was_  a subtle magic. He had to give her that, subtle enough that he hadn’t been able to stop the nuclear war.

Technology ground to a halt, phone lines went dead, the world was plunged into darkness, and amidst that darkness Morgana had rebuilt her black fortress in the heart of Camelot. She had plucked the crown from King George IX’s head and proclaimed herself ‘Queen of Camelot’ once again.

_This_  was the old battle. The one that only he and Arthur could fight. Their love and honour against her hatred and darkness. Their glorious new world, against her kingdom of slaves.

He hadn’t camped by the lake this time, hadn’t needed to.

He’d known when it was time and, sure enough, moments after he’d arrived at the lakeshore the water began to churn and boil. When it settled, the boat he’d sent sailing calmly into its centre as the tears had poured down his face, came sailing calmly back.

Emotion overcame him. He’d dreamed of this moment for so long, so long that at times he’d doubted it would ever arrive. He’d wondered what he would say. What Arthur would think of this or that.

The boat bumped gently against the shore and he stepped forward on shaking legs, hardly daring to breathe. As he peered into the boat, there he was. Exactly as he had been the last time he had set eyes on him. Young and strong and dressed in his armour, just as he most often remembered him. Eyes closed as if sleeping peacefully, just as they had been over a thousand years ago. Excalibur safe at his side.

Shaking, he reached out one old wrinkled hand and rested it on his forehead.

The peacefully closed eyes shot open.

“Merlin?” he asked, bolting upright and glancing around with that particular characteristic head movement that Merlin hadn’t even realised he remembered.

“Arthur,” he managed to reply through the tears and sobs that threatened to pour out of him.

“You got… old,” Arthur said, his face twisted into that expression that was halfway between confused and disgusted.

Merlin laughed. “You didn’t.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Merlin felt as if he could look at him forever, memorise every detail in case this was all a trick or a dream. He felt like he’d need forever just to believe that this was real.

“Merlin?”

“Yes, Arthur?” Merlin replied, gravely.

“Get the bags.”

 Merlin grinned, reaching out with young hands for the meagre bundle of possessions, before rushing to keep up with the king already stalking up the beach. “Yes, sire.”

_Finally,_ he thought.  _No more waiting._


End file.
